“Negative,” I respond flatly.
“Asher. Your hard tyres are gone.Box.” The pit entry is coming up, I have to commit in a few seconds if I’m going to make it.
I don’t fucking want to. I can make the tyres work. I can make the race work. If all I do is hold my place, I’ll still be in much better shape than I have been for alongtime.
“Trust me,”Victoria intones.
Goddamnit. I dive into the pit lane, and the late entry costs me precious tenths of seconds.
“We’re giving you softs.” She sounds audibly relieved.
And suddenly, I get it. She kept me out on the hards for as long as she could—slow but steady, saving the pit stop for the final stint. Now I’m getting the fastest tyres on the grid while everyone around me is nursing older, worn-out rubber. She’s been playing the long game the entire time.
Now, if I can do my job well, I have a shot at gaining places.
I pull up into the pit box. No sooner have I stopped than does the crew swarm the car. A loud, mechanicalwhrrsounds as they change out my tyres; as soon as the car drops off the jacks, I take off again. This time, inP17.
I barely make it onto the track when Victoria starts rapid-firing directives. Attack, defend, overtake, preserve tyres… it’s endless, and it doesn’t help me climb as rapidly asI’d like to.
But the softs are a different animal entirely. Their grip is immediate and visceral. Corners I was struggling through on the hards are now easy to eat up. My car feels like it’s waking up after a long, well-deserved rest.
Since I’m choosing to trust her, even if only temporarily, I listen. I grip the wheel so tightly my knuckles pop, but I do what she says—because I know she sees more than I do.
In the last five laps, carnage ensues. I’ve barely managed to get to P16 when I find myself inanotherstandoff with Ulrich. The inexplicable urge to accidentallybumphis car and send him spinning out grips me, but instead, I use the next X-mode zone to overtake him—and Victoria points out another opportunity immediately ahead.
In the span of one lap, I overtake two cars and climb to P15, and all of my energy goes toward defending that position until the final lap—when I’ve managed to get to P14.
I’m tailing Junior Cub’s second driver, Pavel Novak. He’s done surprisingly well this season despite historically landing somewhere between P15 and P17.
“You…” Victoria cuts off. After a beat, she speaks again, sounding chillingly uncertain. “Attack available on the last corner. Novak’s tyres are softer and 5 laps older.”
I see why she’s nervous. The final corner of this track is notoriously tricky and has a steep curve. It’s been known to cause many accidents in F1, especially when taken quickly by rookies with more pride than sense.
I’m not a rookie, and I know this track. I’ve driven it every season foryears.
Novak will probably either close the door on me at the entry of the corner or at the exit. He might try to do both, but that’ll severely sacrifice his stability.
Novak has a wife and two kids. He’s a family-man, through and through. He’s not risk-averse enough to stay out of F1, but he’ll also be reasonably careful.
Which means my best bet is being unreasonably risky.
I hit the overtake button, rapidly gaining on him. Novak’s tyres are his greatest disadvantage right now; he’s probably been told to stay out and defend his position by his engineers.
I manage to pull alongside him at the corner entry. The kerb up ahead rapidly approaches, as do the safety lines painted onto the tarmac. Novak doesn’t waver or slow; he keeps pace with me. My breath stutters. Fear grips my spine, curling around it like a venomous snake.
We’re on a direct collision course. If neither of us slow soon and let the other pass, we’rebothliable to crash.
Brake, motherfucker.Brake.
Novak slows, thankfuck. A hundredth of a second later I touch my brakes and turn my steering wheel, rocketing ahead of him. He swerves and recovers, but my tyres skate over the track, no grip.
For a moment, I think I’m completely fucked. That my tyres are beyond finding traction, that I’m going to spin out and crash. Ifeelmyself lose control of the car’s contact with the track.
Then, the breath-stealing fraction of a second ends. My car steadies, downforce winning out and keeping me glued to the concrete.
A shuddering breath of relief seeps out of me. My heart hammers against my ribcage so rapidly I’m certain I’m about to have a heart attack—but not before I finish this race.
“Hold position.” Victoria’s voice is immensely relieved, and I feel a smile tug on my lips.
